The Moment Before

I seem to have lost my voice.

No, not that.

It’s never been that.

It hasn’t been “lost.” That implies I mislaid the thing myself.

I’ve been robbed.

The ideas have been confiscated,

pillaged by grief.

My words have been burgled,

plundered by agony.

As a result,

My desert mind lays barren, unable—or maybe unwilling

To bear fruit.

Scared, so very scared—

that it might happen again.

Fearful that thunderclap inspiration will strike

The “aha!” the “oh yes!” the “this is it!”

After which, my muse inevitably fills the cup

With an intoxicating mix;

Creative anticipation, artistic yearning, and cliched new beginnings

Only to then have suffering bore the hole

and siphon it away

a slow drip drip drip

into….

What? Where? Who?

I can’t even bear the thought.

Instead, I want to nestle into the moment before the making

that infinity second where everything is possible

Nothing has happened

Everything is yours

And nothing can be taken

Not yet.